


Stigmata

by blakefancier



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts at a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stigmata

**Author's Note:**

> Disturbing imagery.

It starts as a dream. He is lying in the middle of a stream; the sky above him is a shade of light blue that reminds him of the knitted caps his mum made Day wear when he was a baby. It is a perfect sky, free of birds and clouds. The water rushes by him, leaving only his face dry. It mutes the sounds around him and forces the echo of his heart to resound in his ears. It is freedom in its simplest form, life without responsibility.

He is warm and he is content to simply float.

It is then that it happens: hands grab at his clothing and his hair, dragging him under. He struggles, trying to tear free, but the hands will not let him go. He tries to scream but water fills his mouth, making its way into his lungs. He is overflowing but there is no remembrance. There is only the burning pain.

Blackness.

He wakes, cold and wet, on the bank of the stream. He shivers and slowly gets to his feet. The sky is now a steel gray and black birds, their bodies distended, soar above. He walks, hugging himself, head down to keep the stinging wind from his face. Each step is agony, like a prickle of thorns across his skin. He does not know how long he walks but after a time he comes to a tree.

It stands before him, gnarled and barren, it fills the sky. He touches the dried bark and shudders before looking upward. Hanging from the highest limb, a noose around his neck, is Avon, face dark, dried blood crusted around his nose and ears. He swings in the wind, his face twisted in a parody of his usual scowl.

This should anger him or sadden him, Avon's death, but somehow he understands the inevitability of it. Instead of raging he climbs the tree and loosens the rope. The body makes a muted sound as it hits the ground.

Slowly he climbs down and kneels near the corpse. Avon's body is cold as he cradles it in his arms, cold and stiff. No matter how much he tries he cannot get him warm. He cannot make him undead.

There is something wrong.

He reaches out to stroke Avon's face and that is when he realizes that his palms are bleeding. He, too, is dying.

He thinks, why, Avon, why? But he knows the answer. It is an age-old theme of love, betrayal, and misunderstanding.

Forgiveness.

It ends as he wakes. Avon is lying atop him and the room is bathed in red light. He turns his head and sees Vila, eyes wide but unseeing. He reaches out a hand but he cannot touch him, cannot close those eyes. He never could touch Vila. Instead he places his hand on the head cradled against his chest. Avon's head. He gasps and clutches at the soft hair as his life-blood pours from his body. Dying, he looks up. He knows that if he looks hard enough he will be able to see the sky, blue and pure. He will show Avon how to dream that sky.

He will.


End file.
